Yo, Rinty!
by MistWraith
Summary: Sam briefly considered using his phone to snap a picture, but sharing a bed with your dog lacked the blackmail potential of, say, sleeping with a teddy bear. Damn. One-shot.


**Disclaimer**: Absolutely nothing belongs to me. Nada. Zip. And definitely no money has changed hands.

**A/N**: This story first appeared in the zine "Chinook 8." Just for fun, the result of another insane plot bunny. Please let me know what you think!

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**YO, RINTY!**

BY: **MistWraith**

_Timeframe:_ _Set after "Born Under a Bad Sign" but before the end of Season 2._

It really _was_ a beautiful day, the sky a brilliant blue dotted with small playful clouds, the breeze gentle and filled with all the many scents of the forest. Bird calls echoed through the trees, accompanied by the quiet buzz of small insects. Dean Winchester stopped next to a tall pine, filled his lungs with the clean, invigorating air and smiled.

Pulling off the quiet two-lane road for a break had been a great idea. If he'd stayed in the Impala one more second, he would have offi­cially become an only child. Sam had definitely been grating on his last nerve. Okay, to be fair, he was probably driving Sam a little crazy, too, but that was _only_ in retaliation for Sam's pissiness—though he was honestly convinced that fairness was overrated… at least, he had been ever since little Sammy, when he truly _was_ little, had learned the word and started wielding it like a sword. Yep. That was his story, and he was sticking to it.

Not that it was hard to understand. They had been living in each other's pocket 24/7 for a long time now, and it had gotten worse as they had become more isolated, with Sam being himself hunted by some because of his psychic abilities and by others because of what Meg had done while in possession of Sam's body. And after Gordon's comment about having a spy at the Roadhouse, Dean had flatly refused to have any further contact with Ellen or Ash.

So it was down to the two of them, with no way to get a break from each other. Hell, even as kids under Dad's iron hand, they had had more time apart. Considering that he and Sam were different in more ways than they were alike, it wasn't surprising things got a little tense from time to time.

Just before he had decided to pull off the road, his brother had been sitting there as tight as a high tension wire, and Dean had been grinding his teeth down to his gums. He was out of the car the instant the engine died, snarling at Sam that he was heading _this_ way and Sam should go in some other direction. _Any_ other direction. He refrained from adding, "And _keep_ going."

That had been an hour-and-a-half ago, and his stomping through the woods had been replaced by a more casual and appreciative stroll. He could feel the tension draining away, to be replaced by the more usual big brotherly concerns. These days—considering the forces amassing against them and the fact that Sam got possessed the last time he went off on his own—he was increasingly reluctant to let Sam out of his sight for any length of time. Which was probably one of the reasons why they were getting on each other's nerves in the first place.

He made a U-turn to head back to the Impala, then halted and cocked his head. He thought he'd heard something, but there was nothing now. As he started forward once more, he heard the noise again. Pivoting, he turned his head back and forth to pinpoint the sound. There.

Dean pulled his gun from his waistband and shifted into stalk mode. The noise came again, and he frowned. Damned if it didn't sound like a _whimper_. What the hell?

He pushed through some underbrush cautiously until he caught sight of his quarry. Straightening up, Dean tucked the gun back into his waistband at the small of his back, walked over and crouched down beside a very unhappy dog. Studying the area, he could see an old rope had been tied by someone around one of the trees. The free end had gotten tangled around one of the dog's legs.

The canine's tail thumped the ground in greeting, and the whimpering became even more piteous. It was an All-American mutt, at the bottom end of the medium-sized range, white with scattered black hairs and some larger black spots. The fur was longish; a black ring stood out around one eye; and, while one ear stood straight up, the other bent at the tip. The dog looked up at Dean hopefully and attempted to lick any part of the human it could reach.

"Hey, give that tongue a rest, will you? I already showered today." He found himself grinning at the eager canine. To his surprise, the tail began to pound the ground even faster.

It took him only a minute to unwind the rope and free the animal. He ran his fingers through the fur at the dog's neck, checking for a collar, but found nothing. The dog, in the meantime, seemed ecstatic at the attention and kept up his single-minded attempt to lick every part of Dean's hands and face. Dean could barely catch his breath, he was laughing so hard.

_Damn, but it feels good to just laugh at some­thing again. How long has it been since either one of us did that?_

Standing up, he brushed bits of leaves off his jeans. Definitely time to get back to the car and make sure Sam hadn't gotten himself into trouble—something the younger man had a distinct talent for, as far as his brother was con­cerned. He took a few steps back in the direction from which he had come and then realized he had acquired a shadow. He stopped and glanced back to see the rescuee, who had been following him, stop also and stare at him happily, ears pricked. Well, one ear pricked, anyway; the other remained flopped at the tip but was clearly straining to stand straight. The plumed tail began to wag faster when its owner observed Dean looking at him.

Dean made a shooing gesture with his hands. "Go. Shoo. Go home." The absence of a collar argued against there being a home, but Dean pretended he hadn't thought of that because otherwise he would feel guilty about not taking the mutt with him.

The dog ignored Dean's words and gestures and continued to stand there, practically smiling at him. Sighing, Dean gave up and started back toward the car again. The sound of leaves being padded on behind him told him his admirer was still travelling in his wake. An instant later, he jumped as something cold and wet touched his hand.

"Arggh, don't do that! You trying to give me a heart attack, mutt?" He glared at the dog, who looked unrepentant. It was holding a stick in its mouth, which it offered to Dean.

"What? You want to play fetch?" He crouched down 'til he was on eye level. "Listen, fella, I think you're a very nice dog, but you can't come with me. Okay?" He tried to give the dog a push, but got only a pitiful whine for his efforts. He dropped his head and sighed. Maybe if he played with the dog for a minute or two, the mutt would leave happy.

He took the proffered stick and rose to his full height, then he threw it down the path. The dog gave an excited yip and raced after it. Dean took the opportunity to decrease the distance between himself and the Impala. Not fast enough, though, because the wet nose was back almost immediately. He looked down; the dog was practically dancing all over the place in excite­ment, eyes bright, tail going like a tornado.

Dean couldn't keep the grin off his face. "Okay, give me the damn stick!"

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Sam leaned back against the passenger door of the Impala, his head tilted back, the sun warm on his face. He had to give it to Dean: The stop had been the right idea. He felt more relaxed than he had in weeks.

Though he was starting to get a little concerned at the continued absence of his brother. Now that he was no longer thoroughly pissed at him, that is. A part of him piped up to remind him _he_ had not exactly been acting like a choir boy, either, but he ruthlessly told it to shut up. It was all Dean's fault. So there.

And you liked being six so much, you decided to regress back to that age again!

He grinned. He felt good, he was sure Dean was feeling better, and they would do what they always did—let it go and move on. He closed his eyes again and then opened them abruptly, listening. Was that barking he heard? Yep, it was, and it was getting closer.

A moment later, Dean came racing out of the woods, a dog at his heels. Sam started to reach for the gun he had tucked in his waistband—because the woods may be lovely, but they are also dark and deep, and you never know when the teddy bears (or something worse) might be having a picnic—until he realized that Dean was laughing his head off as he ran toward Sam.

His brother skidded to a halt in front of Sam, while the dog continued to bounce around Dean in a circle, his tongue hanging out and his tail whipping back and forth.

Sam eyed the dog, a bemused expression on his face. "So, anything I should know about?" he asked.

"Sam, meet Fluffy. Fluffy, this is my brother, Sam."

The dog studied him curiously, then turned back to trying to get Dean to play with him. Sam was amazed he was actually a bit miffed at being dismissed that easily.

"Poor thing. Why would anyone saddle him with the name 'Fluffy'?"

"Hey," Dean said, "it was that or 'Killer', and he looked more like a 'Fluffy'."

"_You_ named him? And those were your _only_ two choices?" Sam shook his head. "Next Barnes & Noble we pass, we need to stop and get you a copy of _Naming Your Dog For Dummies_."

Dean gave him a bright, patently insincere smile, then looked down at Fluffy and pointed at Sam's leg. "Hey, Fluffy, see those two poles over there? Feel free to think of them as fire hydrants."

To Sam, it seemed as if the dog was now staring at his legs with undue interest, and he took a cautious step back, followed by a blink of sur­prise when Dean opened the rear passenger door and waved Fluffy inside.

"Uh, Dean, what are you doing?"

Dean's expression became defensive. "He doesn't have any collar, Sam. I don't think he has a home. I can't just leave him here."

Despite a little niggle in the back of his mind politely suggesting he tread lightly, Sam found himself saying exasperatedly, "Dean, are you crazy? We can't keep a dog! It's a lot of work to take care of a dog. And are we going to keep him in the car while we hunt? What if he barks or gives us away? What if the motels won't let us keep a dog in the room? And what kind of a life would it be for him, in the car or the motel all the time? On the run, no real home—"

"Well, if this isn't déjà vu all over again," Dean said angrily. "So much for all that 'I'm the odd man out' crap you loved to spout. You and Dad were two peas in a pod!" He shut the passenger door firmly after letting Fluffy in and stalked around to the driver's side, sliding in and slam­ming his door.

Dean's words re-awoke a memory. Dean had been—what?—thirteen and had come home one day with a ragged-looking stray. He had begged Dad to let him keep the dog, which would have been the first pet he owned. Sam could still hear the exchange:

"_Dad, please!"_

"_A dog's a big responsibility, Dean. I have no time to take care of one."_

"_I'll take care of him. I swear. You won't have to do a thing!"_

_"We can't keep him with us when we hunt, Dean; it's too dangerous. He could get in the way or give our position away. And we aren't always somewhere where we can leave him in a room. Which is another problem: What if we can't find a place to stay because we have a dog with us?"_

"_As if the crappy motels we stay at would give a hoot," Dean muttered._

_Thunder echoed in John Winchester's voice. "What was that, young man?"_

"_Nothing," Dean said hastily. "It's just that I've seen pets before at the places where we've stayed. It'll be okay. I just know it."_

"_Dean," John said, still trying reason, though there was a hint of gritted teeth in his tone, "it wouldn't be fair to him. We never stay any place very long. Animals need more security than we can give him; he needs a home instead of being constantly on the move."_

"_If the family is home enough for us like you say, why can't it be home for him, too?"_

_In the end, their Dad had not had an answer for that one and had fallen back on the tried-and-true John Winchester Method of Parenting__™. "Because I said so." And the stray had been left behind._

Sam slapped a palm over his face. _Oh, God. I've become my father!_

He got into the passenger seat without another word. Dean reached back and partially opened a back window, then gunned the engine. Sam could hear Fluffy moving around in the back seat, then two paws came up over the back of the front bench seat, and Fluffy's head poked forward, intently staring out the front window. Dean patted the dog's head, and Sam could hear the sound of the tail hitting the back seat rapidly. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, Sam duplicated Dean's gesture. Fluffy considered that for a minute, then responded with a tail thump.

Not adoration then, but at least toleration. Which meant that Dean would not have to choose sides. Probably a good thing, since Sam was not sure who would win right now.

On the way, Dean passed a small hardware store with some "For Sale" items on tables out front, including tin containers. He purchased two, one to use for food and one for water. At the diner where they stopped to eat that night, Dean had them cook up some chopped meat, which Fluffy had eaten outside the Impala.

Sam was grateful Dean was not so far gone he would feed the dog inside his precious car, but the fact that he didn't mind Fluffy's hairs getting on the seats was worrisome. There seemed to be no question his brother had bonded with the mutt. Sam could only hope this did not end badly.

They found a motel with "No Pets" in large letters on a sign over the registration counter. Dean smiled and ignored it, and they slipped Fluffy into the room quietly.

When they finally crashed for the night, Dean hit the shower ahead of Sam. When Sam emerged from the bathroom, finally clean of the dust of the road, he was greeted by snoring in harmony, with both his brother and Fluffy sacked out on Dean's bed. Sam briefly considered using his phone to snap a picture, but sharing a bed with your dog lacked the blackmail potential of, say, sleeping with a teddy bear.

Damn.

Over the next few weeks, it was increasingly clear to Sam that Fluffy had become, as far as Dean was concerned at least, a permanent fixture. Dean purchased a blanket for the back seat—the hairs _were_ getting out of hand—painted Fluffy's name on his tins and got a collar (and made up a fake tag) to keep enthu­siastic dog catchers off their backs. When Sam had suggested, with no little sarcasm, they get the dog his own bed, both Dean and Fluffy had stared at him as if he were crazy. He never raised the topic again.

Dean appeared delighted when Fluffy turned out to be a "chick magnet", as Dean so eloquently put it. Females of all ages were entranced by Fluffy's scruffy charm, and Dean, demonstrat­ing animal-training abilities Sam had heretofore not been aware of, had taught Fluffy to amp up the appeal. On some hidden signal Sam still had not been able to figure out—lacking the appropriate decoder ring, apparently—Fluffy would go into cuteness overload, bouncing around Dean playfully and uttering high little yips. It worked every time. Sam would have protested turning an innocent dog into a pimp for his horndog brother, if it weren't for the fact that Fluffy was, in fact, a dog-whore, willing to prostitute himself to anyone who would rub his tummy.

A lot like Dean, when Sam thought about it.

When Fluffy also proved he was a ghost detector, going practically to point and growling at a particular spot seconds before a particularly nasty spirit materialized outside their room at an old motel they had not even known was haunted, Sam was pretty sure the Winchester clan had just grown to three.

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Dean moved as silently as possible into the woods behind the farmhouse, where their quarry's latest victims lay. From the corner of his eye, he could see Sam paralleling his path. They had been tracking a hunter—or, rather, what had once been a hunter—who had been possessed by a demon. It hit pretty close to home, and Dean had originally suggested they should give this one a pass and let someone else handle it, but Sam had gone grim and tight-lipped and had refused to let it go. Especially as the hunter had taken fatal wounds a week earlier when the demon had misjudged its chosen victims.

"We need to give him peace, Dean. The human is gone; only the demon still lives. And I'll be damned if I let it go on wearing that poor man's face!"

Dean had studied his younger brother, then nodded. Sam still shied away from delving too deeply into the Meg incident, and Dean had not been pushing him, especially as his attempts to get Sam to open up about it almost invariably ended with Sam reminding Dean of his promise. As if he needed reminding. The damn thing haunted him day and night as it was.

Each of them carried holy water and an exor­cism ritual in case they got separated and either one had to perform the ritual, as well as restraints and a gun loaded with consecrated iron rods. They also carried salt, but Dean sus­pected they would not get much of a chance to lay any kind of a circle.

Dean frowned. It was obvious to him the demon was not taking any pains to hide its passage, and that worried him. Either it was incredibly stupid—and every demon he had ever encoun­tered had at least a minimal amount of cunning—or it knew something they didn't. The latter possibility did not make for a happy Dean. He could see that Sam was feeling equally jumpy.

He peered closely at every shadow, which were increasing with the dying light, looking for the slightest movement, but everything remained still and quiet. The pathway eventually entered a small glade—and the possessed hunter stood at the far end, watching them come and smiling.

"Well, well, as I live and breathe. The Winchester boys themselves. I'm honored."

"You're also history, fuckface," Dean snarled.

"Really? Going to take me down, are you? Weren't able to do it for Sammy, were you, even though you promised? T'sk t'sk."

Dean carefully avoided looking at Sam until he heard his brother say, "Thanks for your concern, you son-of-a-bitch, but I wouldn't worry about it. I've decided not to go anywhere unless I can take a whole bunch of you bastards with me."

Dean smiled. _That's my boy._

The demon's eyes flashed. "I tire of this game. Which, I might add, is not exactly what you thought it was." A cloud of black escaped the hunter's mouth as the host body collapsed, lips frozen in a death grin.

Dean took a step back, sure for a moment the demon intended to try to possess one of them. He was glad for Bobby's anti-possession charm. Then, suddenly, the swirling cloud drew in on itself and began to coalesce into a definite form, solidifying as it did so. In the blink of an eye, the demon stood before them in corporeal form. It was over seven feet tall, powerfully built, with black lizard-like skin, fangs, red eyes and small bat wings projecting out from its back.

_Well, damn. So much for an exorcism ritual!_

"Yahweh," Sam said to Dean's right. "Christus. El—" Sam's voice cut off abruptly, and Dean turned to see Sam fly through the air and into a large oak tree even though the demon had not moved an inch closer. An instant later, Dean was also hurtling backwards.

_Damn telekinesis!_

Dean had a moment to note that Sam was lying too damn still for his tastes, before he slammed into an equally large tree. There was a sharp crack, and Dean, groggily shaking his head to clear it, looked up to see a massive branch break off and drop towards him. He managed to force himself to move sufficiently that the branch only caught his head a glancing blow, but it was enough to both knock the gun from his hand and scramble his brains further. The branch ended up on his left leg. He figured he should be able to move the damn thing, but it would require time he really didn't have right then.

He strained to reach his weapon. The demon, choosing the path of least resistance, headed for Sam, who was stirring but still basically down for the count. Dean gritted his teeth, struggling to get at the gun. Shouting out the names of God would be of no assistance—it would keep the demon from him, but not from Sam.

The sound of barking, coming closer, suddenly assaulted his ears. An instant later, Fluffy charged into the clearing. Clearly recognizing the enemy immediately, Fluffy fixed his eyes on the demon and continued to hurl doggy impre­cations at the hellspawn. Dean groaned. He had doubts he could even save Sam and himself; a hat trick seemed impossible. And how the hell had the damn mutt gotten out of the car, anyway?

"Fluffy," Dean shouted, "no! Go away!" His straining fingers just tipped the butt of his gun, but slid away. His mouth set in a grim line, and he tried yet again.

Fluffy ignored him, and it seemed to Dean that Fluffy _blurred_, making Dean wonder how hard the branch had hit him. Then it was clear that there was nothing wrong with Dean's vision. Fluffy _was_ growing larger. Much larger. And changing. The fur disappeared, to be replaced leathery skin.

The de-furred tail now sported spikes, to go with the pair of horns sprouting between Fluffy's ears, one of which _still_ flopped over at the tip. A six-inch claw tipped each toe and the elongated muzzle was filled with a double set of wicked-looking fangs. It was all capped by a pair of burning red eyes.

_Holy crap. Fluffy is a hellhound!_

The demon, initially taken aback by the transfor­mation, grinned broadly when it saw the result. "Well, evens up the odds, doesn't it? Now it's two against two."

Dean stared at Fluffy, who had not taken his eyes off the demon. A snarl revealed more of Fluffy's fangs. Dean felt the stirrings of hope.

"You know, you sulfuric bastard, it just might be three against one."

As if that were the signal to attack, all six hundred pounds of Fluffy went straight for the demon. There was a blur of black as the two rolled around on the ground, the demon's screams—which Dean thought actually sounded a little girly—mixed with Fluffy's snarls. An arm, bitten clean through, came flying in Dean's direction and just missed hitting him in the face. Which was pretty damn gross, if anyone were interested in his opinion.

The fight ended as abruptly as it began. Only Fluffy remained standing. Hell, only Fluffy remain _intact_. Pieces of the demon were scattered everywhere.

"Wow!" It was Sam.

Dean turned his head. Sam was now sitting up, rubbing at his forehead and staring at the hellhound. "Uh, Dean?" Sam said.

"That's Fluffy." Dean grinned at the expression Sam turned toward him.

There was silence for a moment, then Dean remarked conversationally, "In hindsight, 'Killer' might have been the better choice."

The hellhound glanced over at Dean, who tensed, unsure what would happen next. Then, suddenly, the spiked tail began to wag. Sam yelped and leaned back to avoid impalement.

_Ok-a-y, we just might survive this._ "Good boy, Fluffy," Dean said enthusiastically. "Daddy and Uncle Sammy are very proud of you."

The spike waved even faster, and Fluffy seemed to preen under the praise. He dipped his head down to the ground and came up holding the demon's head in his mouth, which he then proceeded to prance happily over to Dean, where he deposited it.

_Well,_ Dean thought, _isn't __**that**__ special?_ He reached up and patted Fluffy between the horns. Fluffy's tail was now going like a windmill and, then, he was changing again. In the time it took to blink three times, the All-American mutt was back, excitedly licking Dean's face. Dean laughed and pushed him back, then started struggling to remove the branch. A moment later, another pair of hands helped him lift it.

Sam eyed Fluffy warily as Dean climbed to his feet. Dean patted the dog again and told him once more how proud he and Uncle Sammy were. The dog lapped it up.

"So, Sam, what do you think? Amnesia? A hellhound with the delusion of being Rin Tin Tin? The result of a forbidden illicit love affair between a hellhound and a spaniel, unloved by either side?"

"A spy for the other side?" Sam suggested.

"That would make him the worst spy in the entire history of spying. He kind of gave it away back there, didn't he?"

Sam laughed. "I have no clue, Dean. Maybe we should ask Bobby?"

"Great idea, Sam. Let's just announce it to everyone." The sarcasm practically burned a hole in the dirt. "The nasty old yellow-eyed demon is gunning for you. Meg is gunning for _me_. The FBI is gunning for _both_ of us. Gordon and his buddies want to take you out before you become the Anti-Christ. Wandell's pals have forgotten what the words 'demonic possession' mean. And now _you_ want to get the few hunters left who don't already hate us on our tails because we own a hell­hound. Besides, didn't you get the point last time? Bobby doesn't _want_ to know; it gives him deniability." Dean patted Fluffy's head again. "C'mon, mutt, let's get going."

"Dean, are you planning on still keeping him?" Sam sounded stunned.

"Of course, I am. It's still Fluffy, just with a slight… hormonal problem." Dean sauntered off toward the car, Fluffy in tow.

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_Only my brother would consider a dog that turns into a hellhound as having a "slight hormonal problem"!_ Sam sighed, shook his head and started after the pair. Words drifted back to him.

"We're going to take you on all sorts of hunts, Fluffy; you'll love it. You get to chomp on bad vampires, demons, wendigos, witches, gods—and even those really ugly plaid socks Sam owns, but _only_ when Uncle Sammy isn't wearing them—"

"Hey!" Sam said indignantly. "I like those socks!" Actually, he didn't, but Dean had looked so horrified when Sam had joked about buying them that he couldn't resist getting them and wearing them every chance he got. One of the perks of being a little brother.

"—on the other hand," Dean continued smoothly as if Sam had not interrupted, "when Uncle Sammy is being really pissy or annoying, or making too many bitchfaces, feel free to chow down on the socks anytime. Sam can always suck his thumb instead of his toes."

Maybe it _was_ time to get rid of the socks.

**The End**


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